The Demon’s Parchment

11

He could not see the corpse without a torch, and though he was reluctant to do it, he had to call the hue and cry and rally a messenger to retrieve the sheriffs.

When Exton and Froshe arrived, he saw by their expressions that they were learning the extent of their relationship with Crispin. Their faces were pinched and white. And the fact that they had, no doubt, been called away from their suppers, pleased them even less.

“Why is it, Master Guest,” said Froshe in a sharp, low tone as he dismounted his horse with a great grunt, “that when you are set to a task to solve one murder, you garner more?”

“It is my poor luck showing itself, Lord Sheriff.”

“No, your luck appears to be good. It is the luck of the poor souls around you that plagues us all.”

Crispin said nothing as the sheriff motioned to his man William to bring a torch.

William was a wall of a man with a flat face like brickwork. He was a servant of Newgate and had served gladly under the brutal Simon Wynchecombe, but he looked a little warily at his two new superiors.

Nevertheless, William pointed a sneer in Crispin’s direction as he lumbered forward, tilting the cresset and its sputtering flame over the body. The erratic patch of wavering light confirmed that this was the servant whom he had planned to meet, who was going to implicate someone. And now the man was dead and his information with it. Even if anyone else in the palace knew something, this would certainly silence them.

Grimly, the three leaned over the corpse. It was Crispin who knelt first and when the sheriffs followed suit, William lowered the cresset at last.

The golden light passed over the dead man’s face. His eyes bulged like a frog’s, mouth slack and tongue lolling. But there was no froth at his lips, no indication that he had been poisoned. Crispin took a breath and reached forward. He thought Exton or Froshe would stop him, but the sheriffs said nothing. Better Crispin soil his hands than the sheriffs, he assumed.

His fingers curled at the neck of the man’s tunic and pulled open the laces. “Lower the torch,” he said, and was surprised that for once the combative William complied. The light revealed a dark welt ringing the man’s neck. But not merely a welt. It was an indentation so deep that the skin had welled red around it. Something had pulled so tautly about his neck and throat that it might have severed his head were it sharper. His neck looked the same as the strangled boy from the Thames.

Crispin cocked his head toward Exton and silent confirmation was written clearly in his eyes. Yes, Exton had recognized it, too. He joined Froshe in an unspoken exchange.

Crispin looked his fill and was leaning away when his eye caught on something at the shadowed edge of the groove in the skin. Closer. He plucked a thread from the folds of skin and lifted it out. A thread that did not match the man’s garments.

“What have you there, Master Guest?” The Fishmonger was so close his breath huffed against Crispin’s hair.

“It is the murder weapon, Lord Sheriff.”

“What? That?”

“Or should I say that it is from the murder weapon. He was strangled with a length of cloth.”

“A length of cloth?” said Froshe, pushing his way forward. “What do you mean?”

“A strap, a drawstring, apron ties. Some sort of cloth. Then a stick or a knife might be used to twist it tight. A garrote. You see the severity of the strangulation. A garrote would be the thing.” He tried to distinguish the reddish color in the flickering light. He’d have to wait till morning to get a good look at it. He pushed his tabard out of the way and tied the thread carefully around the straps holding his money pouch to his belt.

“Who was he, Master Crispin?”

Crispin stared again at the face. “A servant in his Majesty’s court. He had information for me relating to this case.”

Exton straightened and stared down at the corpse. “Alas.”

Their silent commiseration continued only for a few moments more before Exton motioned to William and Froshe. It was clear to Crispin who was the dominant man in this office.

“Get the cart,” said Exton. He swept away the audience of bedraggled folk, dwellers on the skirts of Charing Cross who had been summoned from their beds by the hue and cry. No one had seen or heard anything. Crispin searched beyond their shivering shoulders outside the halo of torches and candles, but the fog still hung too thick about them.

Exton mounted and Froshe soon followed. Crispin watched him and wondered if he should mention the secret enclave of Jews. But measuring Exton’s irritated features and the inevitable explosion to follow such an unexpected pronouncement, he kept silent.

Besides, he thought with a bit of malice, he had given his word.

The sheriff leaned down toward Crispin. “Except for the strangulation, this death is not like the others.”

“No indeed,” concurred Froshe.

Crispin cast his eyes toward the body William was hefting into the back of the cart like a carcass of beef. “No. This murder was hasty. Needful. The other deaths seemed to take some time.”

“This death brings you no closer to finding the murderer, Master Guest.”

“On the contrary, Lord Sheriff. Someone is frightened enough at how close I am. They knew why I wanted to speak with this servant and what’s more. . ” Crispin paused, his thoughts landing where they suited best. “They saw me make my appointment.”

“Eh?” Exton leaned so far forward he looked as if he might fall. “You know who it is?” He carried the expression of a man about to receive a prized gift.

Crispin rubbed his chin, feeling the first raised bits of beard. “I might.”

“Tell us, then.”

Both sheriffs bristled on the edge of their saddles, clutching the reins tightly in gloved fists. “I will catch him, my lords. Never fear. But you must be patient. There is more to discover.”

“What?” Exton’s voice cracked the brittle silence. He whipped his head around and then scowled. In a harsh whisper he said, “You will bring this culprit in immediately, do you hear me?”

“I cannot, Lord Sheriff. I ask your indulgence.”

“My indul-Master Guest! You are treading on very thin ice.”

“As always, Lord Sheriff.” Crispin gave them both a courtly bow before sweeping hurriedly away, listening to their stifled rants behind him. He chuckled to himself. It wasn’t often he could get the better of a sheriff and he knew he would likely pay for it later with the fists of their sergeant William, but he had to return swiftly to court to see if he could catch Julian, the only one who could have overheard him with the servant.

Crispin waited. The guards at the Great Gate were relieved by new men, and while greetings were exchanged and feet crunched over the icy gravel, Crispin slipped into the shadows near the wall. Months ago, Lancaster told him of a passage into the palace. He steeled himself and moved.

The night fell silent like a corpse dropping to the snow. No one stirred. The bells had long ago fallen silent and would not stir again until dawn. The cold fog still lingered like an unpleasant stench in the courtyard and beyond its walls, and so even Crispin’s breath was not detected as he made his stealthy way in the darkness.

He wrestled his way over an icy garden wall, slid across the sharp stone pinnacle, and dropped down noiselessly to the other side. Ahead lay the large blocky shape of the palace. He touched a buttress, running his hand along its cold surface. Using it as his compass in the shrouding gloom, he found St. Stephen’s chapel. The right direction.

More garden walls, more climbing. The repetition served to warm his stiffening limbs, but not the fear of capture. He counted the gardens. He knew where each chamber lay, knew which window he needed. Of course, if it was barred, he’d have to break in. The thought made him chuckle. Breaking into the king’s palace? Richard’s expression would be priceless. . before the guards bore down on him, of course.

There ahead. The Jews’ apartment. He reached up to the window and wedged his booted foot on a stone plinth, pushing upward. He grabbed hold of the decorative stone and peered within. The heavy drapes had not been entirely closed and so a slim strip of the room was visible. All dark. A red glow from the hearth changed the shadows in the room and he saw the outline of a four-poster bed. The bed curtains remained open. The Jews were not yet abed. Good.

Crispin inched his hand up the casement window, and found the seam. It was latched, but there was enough room to slip his blade through the thin opening. Hoisting his dagger out with a grunt, he gripped tighter to the decorative stone surrounding the window. The blade skittered off the glass. He paused, listening.

No footsteps.

Holding his breath, he wriggled the steel through, found the latch, and lifted.

The metal latch flipped with a whisper and the casement creaked open. Crispin grabbed it, pulling it wider.

Just then, a window several rooms down opened, spilling candlelight onto the snow-whitened courtyard. A man leaned out and turned.

Crispin froze, hoping against hope that the darkness and fog hid his burglary. But eyes met eyes and Crispin was shocked to see Lancaster staring back at him. And here was Crispin, with one leg already hoisted onto a window ledge that was not his own.

Lancaster’s eyes widened for a moment. When his lips parted it was not to shout, but to swear an oath that Crispin could not hear. The man shook his head slowly, his expression stunned. Finally, he looked pointedly in another direction-perhaps thinking it was better to feign he had seen nothing-and slowly withdrew back inside.

Crispin waited, eyes darting, ears pricked. No sound. No alarm. Just the soft spitting of the fire in the grate and a distant splash of the Thames kissing the shore.

“God’s blood,” he whispered, blinking hard. He gathered himself and slipped inside, lighting on the floor in a crouch. Swiftly, he turned and closed the window again, sheathing his knife. The shock of warmth unsteadied him for a moment, but he quickly recovered and stepped nimbly to the wall nearest the door. At last, he was in the inner chamber! He leaned over and pressed his ear to the door, listening for movement without. Nothing. The physician and his son must be attending the queen, even at this late hour.

Crispin felt safe enough to take a straw from the small canister near the hearth, enflame the tip, and light a nearby candle. Taking up the candle he raised it and looked about the Spartan room. It was not merely a bedchamber, but an extension of the physician’s workroom. A trestle table was set up in a niche on the other side of the bed. Glass jars with lids and parchments covered it. His eye immediately fell on the closest jar. Floating in some clear liquid was a grayish mass reminiscent of the offal sold by the butcher. Leaning close, he peered at it, a grimace growing. What was that? Its vague familiarity raised his gorge. Could it possibly be human?

His anger rising, Crispin longed to sweep it from the table and send it crashing to the floor. What was that physician doing with such a dreadful thing? He looked at the notes in a leather-bound journal lying open on the table beside it and paled. In French, Crispin read the details of experiments with entrails and offal. These were from young creatures but the nature of the creatures was not mentioned.

He lifted the journal and tilted it toward the candlelight, squinting at the tight, careful script. After a bit of reading, he realized that the journal did not belong to the physician, but to the boy Julian, and his anger threw his pulse into a vigorous thrumming.

Flipping pages back, he read the earlier entries, trying to discern what the youth had been up to and liking it not at all. Experiments involving poking the internal organs while they were exposed to the air, the abdomen being sliced open, the poor creature bound and helpless to resist. It explained how long it took the creature to expire and all the abominable note-taking in a dispassionate tone.

He slammed the book closed and panted. Murderers he had known, but this!

He searched the rest of the room, looking for other evidence, other horrific things he did not wish to find. More books and scrolls, some in the physician’s hand and some in the youth’s. There was a wooden pail by the bed and when Crispin inspected it, he saw a twisted mass of discarded rags smeared with dried blood. They could have been used for the physician’s art, but when he looked back at the table and its gruesome contents, he could imagine only the one thing.

A door fell shut and he swiftly pinched out the candle flame. His dagger was in his hand, ready.

A key turned in the bedchamber lock. Its pins fell and the latch lifted. With a hushed whine, the door swung open. A figure, haloed by the firelight from the outer chamber, passed the threshold and reached for a candle.

Crispin’s knife met the small of his back. Julian stiffened with a gasp.

“Master Julian,” growled Crispin close to the young man’s ear. “I would not move if I were you.”

“Y-you!” he whispered. He began to tremble. His voice was choked with anger. He tried to turn around but Crispin could see him struggle not to. “You. . you vile, hideous man! What do you think you are doing here? This is our private chamber!”

“Light the candle.”

“What? I-”

“Light the damned candle!”

The lad swore an oath in French and reached for a straw. He echoed Crispin’s movements of only moments ago and lit the same candle that Crispin had moved to the trestle table. Slowly, Crispin stepped back, his knife still visible. He motioned toward the journal with it. “What is this abomination?”

Eyes darted, narrowed, then looked up at him with hatred. “You could not possibly understand.”

“Try me,” he said.

“How can I explain to a man unfamiliar with the medicinal arts? It would be like explaining the nature of the Almighty to a simpleton.”

Crispin reached back without looking and tapped the glass jar with his knife blade. “What is that?” he demanded.

“That?” Julian frowned at him, his brows contracting to an unpleasant “v.” “It is a spleen. It is one of the organs-”

“Who is it from, whelp?”

“Who? You must be jesting. It is from a goat.”

“Prove it.”

Julian tore away from the nimbus of candlelight. His face fell into darkness. “I can’t. I won’t. These are important experiments. They might save lives someday. But what would you care with your brutish ways and clumsy oafishness? You break in here without a by your leave and expect answers from me at knifepoint. I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of anyone!”

Crispin’s anger bubbled. He had met murderers aplenty. It seemed in London they came a penny a dozen. But the young corpse that he had seen with his own eyes was beyond murder. He dismissed the idea of a Golem. That was a distraction, a cheap conjurer’s trick to fool the eye. Whatever that thing was, if it existed at all, did not perpetrate these atrocities. The body was handled in too calculated a way, too clinical, too careful. The crime was committed by a man, to be sure. And he was beginning to be certain that the culprit stood before him.

“You should be afraid of me. And afraid of the hangman’s noose. You are a murderer of a most foul nature. To do the things you have done-it disgusts me to even think of it.”

“How dare you! I am no such thing! I save lives. It is against the code of the physician. It is against the code of my faith.”

Crispin proffered his knife again. “You will tell me exactly what you have been doing here. And I will examine the evidence for myself.”

Julian stepped into the candlelight. His face was contorted with frustration. His hands, those long-fingered hands, gestured at him. “I murdered no one. What do you accuse me of?”

“Very well. If you must play this game. Four boys were discovered murdered. They were found naked with evidence that their limbs were bound. Their bowels were skillfully ripped from their bodies. And they were sodomized.”

If actor he was, Julian showed superb skill. His pupils dilated until the irises were a mere pale green ring against the whites. At last his lips trembled and a hand came up to press upon their whitening pallor. “No,” he whispered. “Almighty Lord, no.” His hand groped for a stool and he found one behind him. Sinking down, his taut body fell limp. From the hearth light and the candle, Crispin noticed the sash around the boy’s waist. Such a thing could easily be used to strangle.

“You accuse me of this,” he said with a husky voice. And then, any amount of sympathy the youth might have engendered was lost as he raised his head and snarled an ugly laugh. His eyes gradually cleared and he gritted his teeth. “Get out.”

No more of this. Crispin grabbed his shoulder and yanked hard. The youth stumbled to his feet. “Explain it to the sheriff.”

“What? No! Unhand me!” The boy wrestled, wriggling like an eel until he slipped from Crispin’s grip and ducked away from him, melting against the wall. “I am not a murderer! What will it take to convince you?”

“Do you conspire with those other Jews? Is this an elaborate plot to kill Christian boys?”

Julian stared at him. “Other Jews? You are mad. What are you talking about?”

“Do not play the fool with me, boy. I know of the secret Jews in London. And I also know of the plots to kill Christian boys. Is this part of a larger scheme?” Crispin’s hand hurt. He realized he’d been gripping the knife hilt tighter and tighter.

Julian’s green eyes darted to both of Crispin’s. “You make no sense. There are no Jews in England. Your own king saw to that.”

That was enough. Crispin lunged and grabbed the boy by his gown, pulled him forward, and shook him. “Do not play with me! So help me, I will flay you alive-” The blade speared toward the young man’s face and those green eyes contracted, staring down its tip.

“Maître Guest!”

Crispin’s attention slid for only a moment toward Jacob staring horrified in the open doorway. But it was enough for the slippery youth to escape again. This time Julian’s blade was free and in his hand. His chest heaved as he inched toward the door.

“Father! Back away! This man is insane. He speaks nonsense and of horrible things.”

Jacob looked from one to the other, searching for some sense between them. Crispin sneered. “It is this son of yours whose sin you should fear, Master Jacob. His ‘experiments’ are an abhorrence to God. And these things”-he gestured toward the table-“should be destroyed.”

Jacob entered and curled a taut hand around the lad’s wrist, pulling him none too gently behind him but not allowing him to leave. “Have I not warned you of this abomination?” he hissed at him. “We are not butchers. We do not need to have such filth in our midst.”

“But Father-”

“No, Julian! I have allowed it for too long. These things must go.”

Crispin was unmoved by the physician’s rhetoric. “All very well, Master Jacob. But surely you are aware that these are human entrails.”

Jacob did not loosen his grip on the boy’s arm but his attention now lay fully with Crispin. “Human? No! They are animal entrails, Maître. Animals! We examine these organs to understand their functions. Surely you can see-”

“I accuse your son of most foul murder, Master Jacob. That which you ascribe to some mythical Golem. It is your son who stands accused of murder, disembowelment. . and sodomy.”

Crispin expected much, but he did not expect the curiously stagnant expression on the physician’s features.

Jacob merely shook his head and chewed his lip. “No. No, Maître Guest. You are mistaken. On all counts.”

“I am not! This is the proof of it! These foul canisters! Can you deny it?”

“I do,” said Jacob firmly. “Julian might have been in error harboring these forbidden things, these animal things, but he means well.” He turned to his son, still holding fast to his arm. “Your notes are sound. Your conclusions scholarly.”

Julian beamed at his father’s praise, forgetting Crispin’s denouncement.

“Damn you both!” That snapped them out of it satisfactorily. The two turned toward him. “I am speaking of murder. Are you deaf?”

Jacob released the boy’s wrist and calmly set his hands before him, crossing those weathered fingers one over the other. Julian stood slightly behind his father, glaring. “I am far from deaf, Maître. And you are far too loud for the hour,” he said, his voice lowering. “I submit to you that you are mistaken about my son. He is no murderer. Nor is he capable of the other things you accuse him of.”

“Forgive me, Master Physician,” he said tightly, “but I have seen what lesser men are capable of.”

Frustratingly, Jacob shook his head again. Crispin dearly wanted to wrench it from his neck. “He is an apprentice physician. He stays at my side, learning. These things you accuse him of, and horrific though they may be, are not possible. We do not kill. We save lives. Further, Maître, the touching of blood is against our faith. True, I must bleed patients to revive their humors,” he said, raising a hand to Crispin’s openmouthed objection. “And in cleansing wounds.” He sheepishly nodded toward Crispin’s arm. Crispin felt a twinge where Julian’s knife had breached him. “But we are assiduous at purification,” said Jacob. “Some sacrifices must be made for our art. The Lord hears our prayers and our pleas for forgiveness. Julian has made his experiments, it is true. But to learn. These horrific tokens”-his hand swept over the table-“will be disposed of and shall not be spoken of again.”

“Mon père!”

Jacob closed his eyes. “They shall not be spoken of again.” He waited for Julian’s silent submission before he opened his eyes and went on. “Julian is always at my side, as I said. Simply, he would not have had time to do the things you would accuse him of.”

“And yet he was here alone with me,” said Crispin.

“For a mere few moments. Tell me, Maître Guest, in your expert opinion, would a man have time to do that of which you accuse my son and still have time to erase the offal and blood that would surely follow such an abomination? From the room and from himself? You are a man used to combat. You must realize the amount of blood that would be produced from such doings.”

Crispin gritted his teeth. God’s blood! The damned man with his slowly blinking eyes and his calm demeanor merely gazed at Crispin, certain in his pronouncement. Of course he could be lying and Julian might have been missing for longer periods of time. But then again, where would he have performed these deeds?

“This does not sufficiently explain away his guilt.” But even as he said it his stomach swooped unpleasantly. It was explaining it away very nicely, as a matter of fact. “You could be lying to protect him,” he snapped. Only after it left his mouth did he feel a slight twinge of loutishness.

Jacob lifted his chin and his cheeks darkened to a dusky hue. But his lips firmed and he spoke not a word.

Their silent joust yielded nothing. The man was formidable and his sharp gaze never wavered. This was no certainty of the man’s veracity. . but it was close enough.

With a growl, Crispin spun away from both father and son and shoved his knife hard into its sheath. He found himself staring at the table, watching that god-awful thing floating in its jar. He hated like hell to be wrong. He hated still more to admit it. But there was something about that youth that irritated the devil out of Crispin, got under his skin like a rash. There had to be something he could blame him for-oh yes. With a sly grin, Crispin turned back toward them. “There is also the little matter of a dead servant who was about to inform me of a very interesting fact regarding your parchments, Master Jacob. A servant who made an appointment to meet with me. . an appointment overheard by Master Julian.”

Relaxed, Julian’s lids drooped over his eyes and a brow arched. It galled Crispin that he did not seem to fear him or God’s retribution. “Yes, I heard that servant when you were talking to him. But I was not the only one in the corridor. There were several men behind me. Any one of them could have heard. You should have closed the door.”

“How very convenient. And impossible to prove. Give me your sash.”

Julian started and his hands went instantly to the scarlet sash at his waist. “W-what? Why?”

“I’ll give you exactly to the count of three.”

Those droopy lids snapped open. Whatever expression Crispin wore, it certainly convinced him. Julian hastily grabbed at the silken sash and unwound it. He held it forth and Crispin snatched it and stomped to the hearth. He held it to the light as he carefully untied the thread from his money pouch and laid it upon the silky cloth.

The colors were not even close.

Crispin braced himself. He almost tossed the sash into the flames for spite but held himself in check. Instead, he studied it. No tears, no sweat stains, no wrinkles as one would find had it been used as a garrote. It was in perfect order.

Without looking back, he thrust the sash behind him until someone took it from his fingers. He tied the thread to his pouch again. His shoulders winced when he heard Julian’s throaty laugh. “Are you satisfied now?”

“No.” His arms were firmly crossed over his chest. “What do you know of these secret Jews?”

It was Jacob’s step he heard approach and then the man’s shadow quivered beside his. “Secret Jews, Maître Guest? What tidings are these?”

“I have encountered the unlikely habitation of a secret enclave of Jews, descendants of those Jews supposedly exiled from England. These were supposed to be converts, but they forsook their oaths and their baptisms.” He spat the last, disgusted by anyone whose oaths meant nothing.

Jacob made a snorting sound and pressed his hand to his mouth. “Interesting. But. . I have nothing to do with them, if these tidings are true. And my son is also innocent of congress with them.” Jacob’s face was lit from the hearth, half in light while the other surrendered to shadow. The stark line of light served to emphasize the deep creases and wrinkles carving the man’s features. “Maître Guest, it is late. You have had strange encounters today. And these murders are vexing and horrifying. I have not heard these details before. I only knew of the murders. I did not know of these. . other matters.” He appeared worried, but he did not look at his son. “I will offer a prayer, for it is all I can do.” He gave Crispin a steady look. “And I offer assurances about my son. He is a man of science with a superb mind. But he is not a murderer. Nor is he any of the other things you would ascribe to him. Come back on the morrow, and we will talk of it. Perhaps he can tell you of the other men in the corridor.”

“No. I do not know who they were,” the boy retorted. Crispin wanted to strangle him. But then he realized the context of his thoughts and felt slightly ashamed. There had been far too much strangling of late.

He raised his eyes instead to Jacob. He wanted to offer an apology, an explanation, but it withered on his tongue. Holy saints, but he was tired. Bone weary and melancholy at all these events. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had not been thinking as clearly as he could have done. He was hungry and in need of wine. It was too late to patronize the Boar’s Tusk, but perhaps not too late to call upon Gilbert and Eleanor.